Hyde Park
by Indigo.Ocean
Summary: After watching the London Olympics in 2012, the Doctor and Rose come across a monument, a memorial of something called the "Battle of Canary Wharf"? How odd...
1. Chapter 1

_**23:09, 27**__**th**__** July 2012**_

_**Hyde Park, London, England, Sol III**_

"Did you _see_ that Irish boxer go? Man, that guy can pack a punch. I counted at least four teeth on the floor. Mind you, these events are nowhere _near_ as violent as they used to be! Back in the day, there was a brilliant event called the 'pankration', this barmy mix of wrestling and boxing. The match went on until one of the guys surrendered. And then of course there was the whole chariot racing fiasco, and don't _even_ get me started on . . ."

"A bit late for that," I mutter bemusedly.

We're walking through the criss-crossing pathways of Hyde Park, beneath inky skies blooming with fireworks. There's hardly anyone around at this time of night, just the occasional couple snogging on a bench or tribe of shrieking youths.

With anyone else, I'd be scared to walk through here at night. Not with the Doctor though. There's something about the warmth of his fingers in mine, his inexorable and brilliant chatterings, his very presence, that makes me calm. No, more than calm; just being with him makes me _happy_. Happier than I ever was, ever could have been before all this. It seems a million years ago that I was there, a life of Mum and chips and buses and Mickey. Then the Doctor came along. And look at me now. Look what I've _become_. Are you watching me, Dad? Can you see me now?

". . . and then he was like, 'Oi, that's my horse', trying to steal Arthur just so he could win the chariot race and I was like 'Get your own royal horse from the 18th Century courts of Versailles!' and he was _not_ happy about that . . ."

I look up at him, and try not to notice how my heart does a little skip. He's grinning at me through his chatter, gesticulating wildly with his free hand, while the other remains comforting and warm and _there_ in mine.

You'd think after all the times I've come close to losing him, it would get easier. You'd think that when he disappeared from behind me as we walked from the TARDIS, that my heart wouldn't thunder so loud I couldn't hear myself think, that my mind wouldn't be whizzing so fast that nothing makes sense, that I'd be able to think of anything other than that _he's gone, he's gone, he's gone_.

Well, you'd be wrong.

" . . . and then _I_ said 'Look, mate, I don't care if you're the ruler of the entire Roman Empire, that's _my_ javelin!' and then he started yelling for his soldiers, making a right fuss, so I legged it quick sticks . . ."

These are my favourite times. When we've finished saving the world again and we're walking hand in hand and I'm just listening to the sound of his voice.

It's a very nice voice, after all.

" . . . so I tried sonic-ing the cell door, but then I remembered it doesn't do wood, and _then_ I realised I could that lock-picker that Houdini gave me . . ."

We're not far from the TARDIS now, nearing the outskirts of the park. I wonder where the Doctor will take us next. I really should go back to visit Mum soon, but maybe we'll take a quick detour. I'm sure he said something about Shakespeare at some point, but maybe -

There's something up ahead. Something I don't recognise, which is weird because I know Hyde Park like the back of my hand. Or at least the Hyde Park of 2006. . .

It looks like some kind of monument to me. Spotlights shine on it, illuminating black marble engraved with silver writing. It's really tall, at least fifteen foot or something. There are flowers, too, a _lot_ of flowers, considering it doesn't look that new. Something awful must have happened since I last came to London.

I glance up at the Doctor, but he's still in full swing of his story. I give him a smile and a nod and a "Right," to keep him happy. Not that he needs it . . .

We're close enough now that I can read the writing that covers the monument. At the base there is a silver plaque with words engraved on it, words that make no sense to me:

"_The Battle of Canary Wharf. _

_For all those lost on 23.03.06._

_Taken from us then. Remembered forever."_

It's then that I realise that the writing covering the monument itself is names. Just hundreds of them, covering every inch of the memorial. So many people . . . dead. All of them, lost in this battle. That must have been quite something.

We're passing by now, but I can't get over how many names there are, how many people were killed. My eyes sting as they roam around the monument;

_Rachel Archer . . . Thomas Mason . . . Daniel Weller . . . Adeola Oshodi . . . Janie Grant . . ._

What a tragedy. I mean, all these people had families and jobs and –

My stomach gives a great lurch and I stop walking suddenly.

_Oh, no. _

"Rose? You alright?" the Doctor says but he sounds weirdly far away from me.

I can't tear my eyes away from the monument, from a particular name that has my heart thudding like crazy. A name I know extremely well.

_Rose Tyler._

* * *

_**Thank you for reading! Please feel free to let me know what you think.  
**_


	2. Chapter 2

_**Previously . . . **_

I can't tear my eyes away from the monument, from a particular name that has my heart thudding like crazy. A name I know extremely well.

_Rose Tyler._

I feel the Doctor shake my shoulder, anxiously. I glance up at him to see him looking back and forth between me and the monument and I realise after a split second that he hasn't seen what I'm seeing, that he hasn't see that name.

And I'm relieved. I mean _really_ relieved.

Because I'm looking up at the Doctor's worried face and I know that he loves me. OK, so _maybe_ not in the way that I would like him to, but I can see something behind his eyes when we've come close to separation, something that makes me feel so safe and happy and warm and I know, I just _know_ that he doesn't want to lose me.

Okay, so it's a risk travelling with him. I know that. He knows that. But there's so much more to life with the Doctor than fighting aliens and risking your life. It's about opening your eyes and seeing the majesty of the universe, racing to see every star and every planet and everything, _everything_ out there. It's about finding that spark deep inside yourself and turning it into a supernova. It's those "It's bigger on the inside!" moments when you feel the thrill, the terror, the joy of finding out that something you've believed all your life is just a glimpse of what's really around you. It's just … the Doctor. That's what it is.

Just seconds ago, that was it, that was How It's Supposed To Be, and I don't want it to change. I really don't. And if one thing's for sure then it's that if I tell him, things will be different.

And I'm looking at him now, at the concern in the creases between his eyebrows, at the fear in the set of his mouth and I realise that I can't tell him what I've seen. I just can't.

"Rose, what is it? You're scaring me," the Doctor says, putting a hand to my cheek and cupping my face.

"I just . . ." I manage to get out. "I suddenly felt a bit faint."

I can tell he doesn't doubt me. I mean, why would he? I've never had reason to lie to him before.

He bends down a bit to my level, looking seriously into my face, and says "You do look rather green."

I wonder why?

"I think we'd better get you back to the TARDIS," he says, decidedly. "Come on."

He strokes my hair then takes my hand with a firmer grip than before and leads me away from the memorial. I glance over my shoulder at the monument, standing tall and imperious over the park.

Then I close my eyes, take a deep breathe and turn away.

I stumble in to the console room, rubbing sleep from my eye.

"Watcha," says a pair of legs sticking out from under the console, and the Doctor slides out from underneath with a grin. Seconds later, he's on his feet and looking at me intently. An eyebrow lifts.

"Rose, you look like death warmed up."

"Good morning to you, too!" I say, because I know I should feel insulted.

But I don't. 'Cause to be honest I _feel_ like death warmed up.

It's been a while since I saw –

Since we were in Hyde Park, and I've had about three hours' sleep. I try, I really do, but I just lie there for hours and think about that monument and the Doctor and what it means for me, for _us_, and Mum and the monument and why can't I get to sleep? and the Doctor some more.

When I glanced at myself in the mirror this morning, I saw my face was this kind of worrying grey colour with circles under my eyes so dark, I might have been punched in the face by that Irish boxer at the Olympics.

"Have you been sleeping?" the Doctor asks, seriously.

"Of c-c-course," I say, trying and failing to stifle a huge yawn.

Stupid homeostasis.

"Come here," he says and pulls me into a hug. My eyes close and I breathe him in and I already feel better for just being here, in his arms, with my face pressed to his chest and his nose in my hair and for a few seconds, I forget to be worried and exhausted and scared.

And then I remember. He pulls back and looks me in the eyes and says, "Rose, is there anything you're not telling me?"

_Yes. I saw a war memorial with my name on it and now I'm worried sick (no, literally) about what's going to happen to me and to you and to my mum and I'm terrified you're going to find out in case you realise it's too dangerous for me to travel with you and leave me, that is unless I die first or –_

"No," I say. "No, everything's fine."

* * *

_**To be continued . . .**_

_**Thanks for reading! Hope you enjoyed it and please feel free to let me know what you think.**_


	3. Chapter 3

He's worried about me. I see him watching me out of the corner of his eye. I notice the way he's almost imperceptibly more careful around me now, avoiding sudden movements and hushing loud noises.

And that worries _me_, thinking he's going to decide I'm not up for travelling with him or something and leave me, and me being worried means I find it harder to eat and sleep and stuff, which makes him even more worried and –

My head falls into my hands as it all seems to fall down on top of me.

_Breathe, Rose._

I breathe.

_There, that wasn't so hard._

But it _is_ hard. Ever since Hyde Park, it's like the knowledge I'm going to die has replaced all the knowledge I need on how to _live_.

Yesterday (or one failed sleep ago, time is a tricky thing in the TARDIS), I found myself in the kitchen, just staring at the kettle for God knows how long before I felt a hand on mine and the Doctor was there, saying "Water, Rose," and filling it up for me.

He thinks I'm ill. Which I guess I am, really, what with the weight I've lost recently and sleep that barely exists anymore. When he asks how I'm feeling, my "Fine"s don't convince him.

And I'm trying, I really am.

The hands covering my face are wet.

I hardly notice the console chair bob up and down a bit as the Doctor sits down next to me. His arms encircle me and I lean into him and try to remember how to breathe. He doesn't complain that I'm getting his jacket wet and maybe a bit snotty. He just holds me while I cry silently.

Even when my tears have stopped, still we sit.

We don't speak. We don't move, except for the occasional stroke of my hair or kiss on my forehead.

I remember how tired I am. My eyelids are falling down, but my chest feels different than last time I tried to sleep, lighter somehow and I don't know if it's his warmth or his smell or just his very presence, but I think (don't jinx it), I _think_ I might be falling asleep. . .

I'm hungry. That's the first thought that comes into my head. I'm actually hungry for once. Interesting.

The second thing I realise is that I'm in my bed. I'm sure I was on the console room chair before. He must have carried me here. Well that was nice of him . . .

I decide to get up and even though my eyes are sore and my stomach is grumbling up at me, my head feels more clear than it has in days. Time is a tricky thing on the TARDIS, but I get the impression I've been asleep for a long, long while.

I make my way to the bathroom, and take a long, hot shower.

And I think.

I think about the circles under my eyes and the ribs that are clearly visible these days. I think about the Doctor, and what my worry is doing to him. I think about all the people we've met, all the people we've _saved_.

What's to stop me from being one of those people? After all the times we've saved the six billion on this planet, why would it be a problem for _me_ to survive whatever's coming?

If I can know what's coming, if I can be prepared, doesn't that mean there's a better chance of me _not_ dying?

I hush thoughts of blue eyes and Reapers.

History can be rewritten. It can.

It can, it can, it can.

When I'm dry and dressed, I go to the kitchen and make a mug of strong tea and take it to the console room.

The Doctor's waiting for me.

"Remembered how to make the tea today, I see," he says, but the grin is forced, and he's watching me closely.

"Yep," I say, smiling.

I don't miss the way his eyes widen for a second.

"Well, you look . . . better," he says carefully. He's looking at me like he's scared I'm about break in half. Have I really been that bad?

"I feel better," I say, encouragingly.

And it's true.

"Well then," says the Doctor, and his attempts to conceal his relief are almost comical. "Where do you feel like going today?"

I set down the tea and, for the first time in so long, I tell the truth.

"I want to go see Mum," I say, adding swiftly, "If that's okay with you."

He nods understandingly, looking like he's been expecting me to say that for a while now.

"Of course," he says, and he's looking happier than he has is days at my sudden increase in sanity. He immediately starts twisting a dial here and pulling a lever there, saying, "It'll be, what, around early 2006? Last time we saw her, the calendar said somewhere in January . . ."

"Yep," I say. "It'll be nice to-"

"Rose," he interrupts, looking around the console at me. "Could you do me a favour and stand right there for a few seconds."

But I don't have chance to say anything more than "er" because he's strode across the room and enveloped me in a great big bear hug. My feet lift off the floor briefly as he holds me close and grins into my hair.

"Nice to have you back," he says.

* * *

_**To be continued . . . **_

_**Thanks for reading! Hope you enjoyed it and please feel free to let me know what you think.**_


	4. Chapter 4

Mum.

It's the most pleased I've ever been to see her, to hug her and breathe in that tea-and-wash-powder smell of hers that always makes me feel about ten years old again.

Even after everything we've seen, all the places we've visited and people we've met, it's nice sometimes, just _sometimes_ to take a break and sit down on our faded old sofa and catch up with Mum over a cuppa.

But only sometimes. Because the truth, the deep down, awkward-to-admit truth is that I could never go back to this life, this; back to this monotonous, lukewarm existence, after seeing the inferno of colour and adventure and emotion and _WOW_ of life with the Doctor.

Even just after walking through the rickety playground and graffitied walls (I'm sure one of them still says _"M.S. + R. T"_ somewhere) of the Powell Estate, I'm itching for something more, holding my breath for something, _anything_ to happen that will get my heart thumping.

I guess it's a good job the ghosts turn up then.

"You're looking skinny," Mum says.

Alright, so there unknown beings pressing themselves into the surface of this universe and convincing the entire human race they're ghosts, and my mother comments on my weight. Typical.

She's right of course, but I'm not about to go into the reason why. Not yet, anyway.

"Yeah, well," I say, "Let's just say I do a lot of running these days."

Mum makes a "_hmmph!_" sound, but doesn't pursue the topic; we've got more important things to worry about.

We're walking back to the TARDIS after seeing the ghosts for the first time. The Doctor is rambling about the ghosts and the fabric of reality and all that jazz, more to himself than to me. Mum trails behind us, not looking sure if she should be coming or not.

". . . but if they _were_ crossing between worlds, then there would have been something that made the cracks in the first place, something with a some serious technology. I mean, we're talking about something big enough to shatter the entire . . ."

He doesn't really notice when I stop to grab a discarded newspaper from a bench. The headlines shouts "_**Election result: Ghost of George Radisson named as MP for Leeds**_".

Oh, come on. The human race can be pretty thick sometimes but can they honestly believe that –

I notice the date. The date on this paper, _today's_ paper.

"_Thursday 23__rd__ March 2006."_

Why does that date sound so familiar?

The TARDIS rasps into existence, landing as near as we can to the ghost's point of origin that the Doctor tracked down as it can.

"So, where exactly are we?" I ask.

"Er, good point," the Doctor replies, spinning the monitor round to us. He checks the Gallifreyan writing on the screen. "We're only a few miles away from the Powell Estate! South London. We're in One Canada Square, which is, of course, also known as Cana-

Ooh, 'ello," he interrupts himself, looking at the monitor. The CCTV image has come up, showing us what's outside. Which just so happens to be a dozen or so soldiers with guns pointed right at us.

Well, that's a new one.

"There goes the advantage of surprise," he says.

This is all happening so fast. One moment, I'm getting busted by that Rajesh guy, the next there are Daleks and Cybermen and he's on the floor dead. I'm running down a corridor with the Doctor and Mickey and my dad (_Oh God, it's my dad_) but it feels like seconds ago that the Daleks were freaking out, ready to exterminate me (apparently taunting a Dalek with the destruction of their leader is _not_ the best of ideas). Everything is a big, fast, dangerous blur. Until we get to the lever room.

"_Offline._"

The word rings out even through the roaring wind and the screams of the Daleks, who immediately begin to slow in their fall to the Void.

I cuss under my breath and stretch as far as I can forward to reach the lowering lever, but it's too far away (of course). I can hear the Doctor shouting for me from across the room but I keep reaching, further and further and I can't hold on to the clamp, but I keep stretching out because I know that's what _he_'d do. . .

I cry out as I fall away from the clamp and onto the lever, trying my damn hardest to keep it from lowering, but I'm being pulled away, pulled towards that white wall of nothing and –

"I gotta get it upright!" I hear myself shouting, but the lever is so effing stiff and I can't do it, I can't I can't I –

I look up at the Doctor, I see the fear and pain on his face and I can hear him in my mind saying, "_Yes, you bloody well can, Rose Tyler._"

And I give another shove on the lever and I feel it finally, _finally_ give a great _clunk_ that shakes my whole body and "_Online and locked."_ says that voice again, quite matter-of-factly and the wind is picking up, pulling the Daleks faster into the Void.

But it pulls me faster too.

"_Rose, hold on!_" I hear the Doctor yell, but I can barely hear him over my own panic as my feet are lifted from the floor and I'm being pulled harder and harder towards the Void and -

"_HOLD ON!_"

I'm so scared –

I can feel the lever slipping from my hands and I'm losing my grip -

(_I don't want to die, I don't want to - _)

I look into the Doctor's face. And I think _'Why the Hell haven't I told you I love you?'_

Coz I do. I realise that, clinging to a lever on the edge of the abyss, about to lose hold any second now and fall into Hell; _I love him_.

And I'm crying out in fear and pain and the effort of holding on, and I can't last much longer –

(_Mum will never know. . ._)

But suddenly everything and nothing changes because I remember -

I remember why the date on the paper was so familiar, remember where I knew it from.

(_I'm so scared, Doctor_)

It was on that monument in Hyde Park, the one with the list of the dead, the monument that had my name on. . .

(_"They keep on trying to split us up but they never ever will."_)

And that's when I fall from the lever.


	5. Epilogue

The man makes no sound as he walks slowly down the paths of Hyde Park. In fact, there is silence, spare the busy patterings of the rain, rain that has been falling relentlessly for two days now, shrouding London in a flickering haze and turning busy squares into motorways of bobbing umbrella tops.

This man carries no umbrella; he barely seems to notice the fact that his suit and overcoat are soaked through, that his hands are shaking (from the cold, surely).

He just makes his way, slowly, slowly, to wherever he is going, stopping occasionally to remind himself how to breathe.

The rain caresses his cheeks and whispers comfort in his ears.

The man walks for a long while, eventually stopping at a great monument in the centre of the park. Silver writing crawls across the black marble, listing five hundred or so names with a gloomy determination.

His eyes, underlined with black circles, comb the list, landing on a certain name near the base of the monument. He swallows. Then he bends and lays down a single flower.

There are no passers-by, no-one to notice how his skin is too pale, how the whites of his eyes are far from white.

No-one to see more than rain running down his face.

The man stands for an hour or so, still and silent, never taking his eyes off that name.

The hand in his pocket twitches for another.

After a long while, he closes his eyes and takes a deep, deep breathe. Then he turns and takes a step away from the monument. Then another, and another, until he is walking away, leaving Hyde Park alone with the rain and himself. . . just plain alone.

The rain falls steadily, stopping long after the man has left and leaving all in the park shining and dripping; from the sighing trees to the single red rose that lies at the base of a monument.

_~The End~_

**Thank you so much for reading this story! Hope you enjoyed it, and please take a few seconds to let me know what you think.**


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